


perchance to dream

by Jemi



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats - T. S. Eliot
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description of Corpses, Healing, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Stray!Tugger AU, again death is not permanent and corpse is not real but, cats are actual cats, death happens in a dream!! its not permanent, please proceed with caution if that's something you're sensitive to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23408026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jemi/pseuds/Jemi
Summary: nightmares are a common symptom of underlying guilt. mistoffelees knows this far better than most.(a one-shot continuation of a window from one heart to another)
Relationships: Mr. Mistoffelees/Rum Tum Tugger
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> this au is going to be the death of me one day.

_ Everything was  _ gray _. _

_ This was, upon first examination, a rather simple fact. One could even go so far as to call it mundane -- after all, what else was one to expect from such an overcast sky? And yet even so, the very notion was enough to fill Mistoffelees with a sort of unfathomable dread that he’d rarely felt before in his life. It made him shiver, a gesture that somehow managed to have very little to do with the bitter chill in the air, and caused his claws to knead uneasily at the dead, frost-covered grass and dirt that lay beneath them. _

_ Had he been in the frame of mind for such things, Mistoffelees may have found himself wondering how exactly he’d come to find himself in the front garden of his home on such a dreary morning. It was certainly not the sort of weather that would typically drive one to contemplate leaving the house, particularly when one was a cat, who hardly needed most anything unless they explicitly desired it. _

_ But, he wasn’t. So, he didn’t.  _

_ The streets of Victoria Grove were still and silent, the type of silence that weighed heavily upon those it had all but swallowed whole, and so very  _ gray _. Even the snow, or at least, the small, half-melted clumps of it that lay strewn about the yard and sidewalk and caught in the gutters, was gray, the once-pure white of it marred by the filthy boots of who-knew how many humans trampling past.  _

_ Dimly, it occurred to Mistoffelees that he should retreat inside, trade the biting cold and eerie quiet for the warmth of his bed, the press of his mate’s pelt against his own and the familiar, soothing sounds of his sister and humans waking up to begin their day. But, there was...something else, some strange sense of  _ Knowing _ that pulled incessantly at the very core of him and kept Mistoffelees from giving in to such a desire.  _

_ He wasn’t sure it was the good sort of Knowing. In fact, if he were to be honest, he thought something deep down was telling him that it decidedly was not. But, even so, a far, far larger part felt almost powerless against the thrall of it. It was, he thought in the very back of his mind, as though he’d been somehow lulled into a trance from which there’d be no release until this strange power, whatever it was, had had its way with him. _

_ Almost of their own accord, his paws carried him towards the gate that separated the garden from the street that lay beyond. The pavement was miserably icy and wet beneath his pads, but Mistoffelees barely noticed as he followed the subtle pull across the empty street. All around him, the silence persisted, clinging to his fur in great clumps, weighing him down until even the act of lifting one paw and placing it in front of the others was a near impossible task. _

_ He could hear only one sound acutely over the dull roar of the quiet all around him. The rapidly increasing pound of his heart drummed against his ribs, an awful, frantic, incessant thing that quickened his breath and rose the fur along his spine. Had he been asked, Mistoffelees couldn’t have very well said what it was that was frightening him so. In the moment, he was aware only of the overwhelming dread he’d felt from the very moment he’d stepped outside (but, had he stepped outside or simply been there?).  _

_ By the time he’d reached the mouth of the alleyway, he was nearly sick with anxiety, his stomach clenching and roiling and his throat aching with each ragged breath he drew, and still,  _ still _ , he couldn’t have properly said  _ why _. And now, too, a new thought occurred to him -- one that was almost surely out of place but that, at the same time, seemed perfectly logical.  _

_ Where,  _ where _ , was Tugger? _

_ The answer ought to have been obvious. Tugger was inside, of course he was. He had to be! Where else would he have gone in the middle of the night and for what purpose? Mistoffelees knew well that his ever-fickle mate had quite the proclivity for roaming about the city, yes, but he was always, always home before the sun had set for the evening. Tugger had told him once that he didn’t like being out and about after dark — said it reminded him too much of  _ before.  _ And yet something else, some deep-set instinct that went beyond that simple knowledge was screaming that this was not the case, that Tugger was not sprawled comfortably on the sofa in the home they now both called their own, as Mistoffelees had left him (had he?), but somewhere else, somewhere infinitely more horrible. _

_ “...Tug?” Mistoffelees whispered into the mouth of the alley, and the hushed endearment echoed back at him in his own hoarse and wavering voice. Logically, he was nothing short of absurd to think that Tugger would have had any reason to want to come here,  _ here _ , of all places. That Knowing, though, that instinct pulling relentlessly at the edges of his mind left him no choice but to consider the impossible. “Tugger?” His attempts to raise his voice were largely fruitless, succeeding only in causing it to quaver all the more obviously. _

_ All around him, piles of human junk and metal dustbins loomed ominously, their forms a series of dark, shadowy sentinels. In fact, Mistoffelees was so very busy watching them warily, as if expecting some horrible shadow to spring at him, that he hardly noticed the dark stain on the pavement until he suddenly felt something wet and sticky seep into the fur of his paw. _

_ WIth a sharp hiss, he drew back, quickly looking down to assess what exactly he’d stepped in. He’d idly assumed that it was simply some melting pile of snow, made hideously tacky by the garbage it was surrounded by. But, when he lifted his paw to examine it, Mistoffelees felt an abrupt jolt of horror strike him in the chest -- for there, bright and unmistakable against the white of his fur was a wet patch of red _

_ Blood. _

_ A cry strangled itself in his throat as he lunged forward, unable to do anything but follow the dark trail that led deeper and deeper into the alley’s depths. When, at last, Mistoffelees skidded painfully to a halt, he felt his heart sink so suddenly and so violently into his stomach that it stole the breath from his lungs. _

_ The mound of ragged tabby fur that lay half-buried in the snow before him might have once been a cat. Patches of already-drying blood marred its dirty, knotted pelt and great clumps of it had been brutally torn away, leaving bright, angry patches of skin behind. It was painfully, horrifyingly thin -- its bones so sharp and visible and what could be seen of its face so sunken that, even with its thick, thoroughly matted coat, it might as well have been a skeleton already. _

_ The cat’s once-handsome face frozen in a mask of terror and agony, a single, amber eye staring, glassy and lifeless, at the overcast sky. Below its head where its throat ought to have been, a mangled, bloodied tear sat open and raw, a black cloud of flies already buzzing in the air around it. It wore no collar. _

_ It was dead.  _

He _ was dead. _

_ Step by shaking step, Mistoffelees drew nearer. Never before in his life had he wanted more badly than to scream, to cry, to do  _ something  _ besides stare and stare and  _ stare _ , suffocated mercilessly by the silence that now seemed to be mocking him with its very presence. And yet, his jaws refused to open. Even if it had, he realized dimly, his throat and mouth felt as though he’d suddenly swallowed a mouthful of sand.  _

_ Wordlessly, Mistoffelees begged,  _ pleaded  _ to the Everlasting above for some sign of movement, for the corpse’s sides to suddenly, miraculously begin to rise and fall as he slowly approached or for that empty, sightless eye to become bright and blink. _

_ His miracle did not come.  _

_ Instead, a sharp gasp tore itself abruptly from his throat as he neared and in that moment, the spell was, at last, shattered.  _

_ His voice regained, Mistoffelees  _ wailed  _ into the early morning air, his gaze fixed solely upon the long, jagged wound that ran up the length of the cat’s-- of  _ Tugger _ ’s hind leg, identical to the one that had so nearly cost him his life. He lunged forward, rivulets of white-hot tears burning into his fur, and buried himself in the cold, mangy fur of what had once been his mate, sobbing a ceaseless, frenzied refrain of ‘ _ no, no, no, please, no _ ’ until it no longer sounded like speech at all. _

_ “Wake up!” he finally cried, sorrow and anger and grief all clawing open a gaping hole in his chest. “Wake up, Tug,  _ please _! Please, wake up, please—!!” _

_ “-- Wake up.” A voice suddenly echoed back, quiet and distant, and yet somehow able to cut through the shroud of anguish that so thoroughly clung to him. “Misto, love — wake  _ up _.” _

_ It was  _ Tugger’s voice. 

_ Perhaps this realization ought to have been comforting, soothing, even hopeful. But, Mistoffelees found it only tightened the already painful grip on his heart. Another grief-stricken yowl from his throat was wrenched from his throat as he reburied himself in what remained of the corpse-Tugger’s mane, caring little for the blood and the flies and the overwhelming stink of death that surrounded him. Perhaps if he hunted long enough for the heartbeat he knew had to be long-stilled, he might-- _

_ “Wake up, Misto!” Tugger’s voice cried again, this time more urgent. “Misto! Mistoffelees!” _

* * *

“ --  _ Quaxo! _ ”

With a jolt, Mistoffelees woke, unable to keep another strangled, agonized cry from tearing its way free from his throat. His wide yellow eyes stared upwards into a matching pair of warm, amber ones -- and, for a brief, wild moment, the sight was so unexpected that he very nearly lashed out towards them. As it was, he scrambled to pull himself upright, his limbs kicking and pushing erratically, so much so that the owner of those amber eyes let out a huff of surprise as Mistoffelees’ paws sank once, twice, three times into the soft, thick bulk of his fur. 

The tuxedo cat’s chest heaved in short, panicked breaths as he looked wildly around, searching for any sign of dreary, gray skies or dark dried blood -- anything that might have escaped from the realm of his dreams and somehow,  _ someway _ , have found its way into whatever reality he now inhabited.

“Misto--”

He turned abruptly, fur standing on end, to face the source of the voice - the very, very  _ close  _ voice - that had called out to him. 

Under any other circumstances, the sight of Tugger sprawled out by his side would have been nothing short of perfectly normal. Under any other circumstances, Mistoffelees would have taken very little notice of the soft shine of his lovely, neatly-groomed tabby pelt and the well-muscled, healthy body that lay beneath it. Under any other circumstances, it would have been no shock at all to note the lively glow in Tugger’s eyes, the gleam of the moonlight caught in the golden spikes of his collar, the steady, unceasing rise and fall of his shoulders as he drew breath, and the (somewhat uneasy) twitch of his feathery tail as he watched Mistoffelees with an almost wary sort of concern. 

Needless to say, these were not ordinary circumstances.

With a quiet, almost desperate cry, he rushed forward, pressing himself into the larger cat’s mane and no doubt catching Tugger entirely by surprise with yet another sudden change in demeanor. For a moment, Mistoffelees felt the other tom go stiff and braced himself for the inevitable question of what on  _ Earth  _ could possibly be wrong -- a question whose answer he found he was still unable to properly make sense of.

But, it never came. Instead, there was only a gentle, rhythmic rasping against his forehead and ears and a sensation of overwhelming warmth that Mistoffelees knew was always a product of Tugger curling his larger frame around him. “...You’re shaking, darling,” came the low, sympathetic croon of the Maine coon’s voice, and Mistoffelees could only let out a quiet, miserable sound of agreement in return. He buried himself in Tugger’s mane, breathing in the rich, musky,  _ living _ scent of his fur, as if to clear his nostrils of the awful stench from his dream. It worked, a little, helped along by the low rumble of the other cat’s purr against his ear.

As the overwhelming terror of his dream began to fade away, Mistoffelees began to take stock of the world around him. He was surprised, for a moment, to not hear the crackle of the fire in the nearby hearth -- hadn’t there just been snow on the ground? But, then, over the sound of his Tugger’s purring, he heard the light  _ tap-tap _ of rain against the skylight over their heads and the whisper of wind through leaves just beyond. 

Of course there was no fire in the hearth, the sensible part of Mistoffelees that was finally beginning to catch up with the rest of him chided, why in the Everlasting’s name would there be in the middle of summer?

Slowly, shakily, he drew first one breath and then another, forcing himself to focus simply on the moment at paw -- the warmth of his mate’s fur and the sound of the rain and the way that the moonlight filtering in from above turned the sitting room to shades of shining silver when he finally mustered the courage to peer out at it. Little by little, Mistoffelees felt his thoughts beginning to slow their frenzied dance, and in turn, his breath evened itself out and the tremors in his limbs became nearly nothing. Much as the nightmare and its horrible images refused to fade from his mind entirely, he had to admit, it was rather difficult to think of Tugger as dead when he was pressed close against his very warm, very  _ living  _ body, able to feel the pattern of  _ inhale, exhale _ that marked his breathing and even the steady, if somewhat muffled, rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his ear.

“...There, now,” Tugger murmured at length, no doubt noting that his mate was no longer too distressed for conversation. “What was all that about, hm?” 

The short answer to that was, Mistoffelees thought, rather obvious. What else could cause such a fit upon waking up? But, then again, he knew well that the question Tugger had asked wasn’t  _ really  _ the one that was on his mind.

“...Just a bad dream,” he replied, not meeting Tugger’s gaze. “That’s all.” It wasn’t a satisfactory answer, he knew; in fact, it wasn’t even remotely close to one. In truth, however, that was all Mistoffelees  _ wanted _ it to be, just a nightmare that he could hide away in some dark part of his mind and never, ever revisit again, if he could help it.

Ah, but that was just it, wasn’t it? If he could help it. Deep down, Mistoffelees couldn’t quite bring himself to say whether he knew for certain that was possible.

Beside him, he felt Tugger shift slightly, a gesture that perhaps another cat might have mistaken for the simple act of assuming a more comfortable position. Mistoffelees, however, had always had something of a knack for knowing exactly what another cat was feeling, and right now, he could sense a deep-set uncertainty from his dearest mate. He couldn’t blame Tugger, he supposed. Mistoffelees’ own time on the streets had been comparatively short, but he knew well that there was very little in the way of  _ comfort  _ out there, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. 

With a quiet pang of sorrow, he wondered if Tugger had ever had someone to be there whenever his dreams turned dark -- and not more than a moment later, realized that he knew what the answer was without even having to ask.

It was that thought, combined with Tugger’s clear discomfort that finally prompted Mistoffelees to sigh heavily and look up to meet Tugger’s gaze properly for the first time since he’d woken. “...You’re going to think I’m being very silly,” he warned, his ears folding back against his head in a rather uncharacteristic bout of self-consciousness. 

“Ah, so no different than usual, then?” Tugger smirked lazily, and despite the flare of indignant offense that rose briefly in Mistoffelees’ chest, there was something rather comforting about the ease in which they could both fall into their typical repertoire, even now.

He huffed lightly. “Do you want me to tell you or not?”

“Of course, of  _ course _ ,” Tugger replied, stretching himself out on his side and beckoning for Mistoffelees to join him with a flick of his tail -- a request that Mistoffelees, despite his metaphorically ruffled feathers, was quick to accept. Without abandon, he nestled himself into the warm, thick fur of his mate’s belly, situating himself snugly between Tugger’s front legs, as though the larger cat were embracing him as their humans often did. “Go on, darling. Out with it.”

Mistoffelees allowed himself a moment more to gather his thoughts before he spoke. “...I thought...I was in the alley. The one across the street.” Already, he felt Tugger go just slightly tense, but he’d been prepared for that. After all, it wasn’t exactly a place that held very much in the way of good memories for either of them. “It was...cold. Winter. There was snow on the ground, but not very much of it.” 

He was stalling with these petty little details, and they both knew it. Tugger, to his credit, hummed in acknowledgement, although there was something prompting in his tone that Mistoffelees certainly didn’t miss. “And…” he paused, shivering faintly as he nuzzled all the more into Tugger’s mane. “...And, I saw you there. Only--” 

Here, his voice broke off and Mistoffelees felt a sudden white-hot rush of heat to the tips of his ears. Ever _lasting_ , could he have been any more pathetic -- whimpering and mewling like a lost kitten over something that hadn’t even been properly real? He drew another shuddering breath and pressed on, electing to keep his voice as steady as he possibly could. “...Only you were dead, Tug,” he continued at length. “You were there and you were _dead_ , like you would’ve been after the storm and -- and all I could _think_ when I looked at you was--” 

_ It was all  _ my fault _. _

Tugger pulled back just enough to regard him gravely and Mistoffelees felt the sudden, irrational urge to flinch away, to deny he’d ever even said anything in the first place. That solemn, thoughtful expression was so very  _ unlike  _ the roguish, preening tom cat he knew and loved so well, and the overwhelming weight of it was enough to lower his gaze and pin his ears back against his head once again. “...Like I said.” he murmured. “It’s silly.”

“Misto.” 

This time, he did flinch.

Tugger let out a quiet sigh. “Mistoffelees. Look at me, please.”

He felt Tugger’s paw press ever-so gently beneath his chin, and despite his reluctance, Mistoffelees allowed him to guide his head upwards, so that their eyes could meet again. He almost wished he hadn’t -- that pensive expression had yet to fade from Tugger’s features and now, there was something like sorrow sitting just below its surface. 

Before he could think to look away again, however, Tugger leaned forward with only a touch of hesitance, pressing their foreheads together. “You’re going to drive yourself mad if you keep blaming yourself like this,” he told him, his voice quiet but firm. “It was just  _ chance _ , Misto, all of it. Everlasting Cat, haven’t you gotten sick of being this guilty yet?”

“Of course I have!” Mistoffelees protested, drawing back to give his mate an indignant look. “But I can’t just  _ stop _ , can I?” Certainly not when it seemed even his own mind was conspiring to keep him from properly moving on.

Tugger narrowed his eyes, although the gesture was somehow not unkind. “Have you tried?” 

Mistoffelees opened his mouth to protest again, to tell Tugger that of  _ course  _ he had tried and that it hadn’t worked, but something about the other cat’s tone was enough to make him pause, reconsider. Had he tried? Had he really, properly tried, the sort of  _ trying  _ that wasn’t simply shoving that ever-festering guilt so deeply into the recesses of his consciousness that he could pretend that it was gone forever? He certainly hadn’t confronted it, that much Mistoffelees could admit to himself. In fact, he’d been quite willing to accept the idea that he may never have to.

What was the point of dragging all of that awfulness back into the light now, when Tugger was safe and happy and well-cared for?  _ That  _ was the only thing that ought to have mattered; everything else - the storm, the streets - all of it could be left safely in the past where it couldn’t hurt either of them anymore.

And yet, clearly, his dreams had another opinion entirely.

Dimly, he realized that he’d been quiet for quite some time now -- and yet, Tugger had said nothing at all to indicate as much. Such patience was terribly uncharacteristic of his mate, and yet, Mistoffelees couldn’t help but think that Tugger would have likely waited for his answer for hours on end without complaint. 

As it was, it took him a few minutes more to find the proper words, and even as he did, Mistoffelees felt his heart sink. He’d gone through what felt like thousands of responses, each one more of a lie than the last -- and so, at length, he forced himself to settle on the truth. “...I don’t know if I could,” he finally admitted, his voice so low that he was sure Tugger was forced to strain in order to hear it properly. Perhaps that was his plan all along, to be so very quiet that he might as well have not spoken at all.

But, he  _ had _ spoken. And, despite his best efforts, Mistoffelees was certain Tugger had heard it, for a moment later, the larger cat’s tongue began to rasp softly across the top of his head. 

It was Tugger’s nature, Mistoffelees knew, to resort to simple physical affection when his words failed him -- and at times like this, they so very often did. His mate may have been in possession of quite the silver tongue in matters of wit and charm, but when it came to expressions of true emotion, it wasn’t uncommon for that silver to turn abruptly into heavy lead between his jaws. Perhaps another cat might have found this habit rather frustrating, and on occasion, Mistoffelees supposed he did. But, more often than not, it made things like this easier between them. He himself was no wordsmith under duress, after all, and over time, this was something that he and Tugger had come to mutually understand about one another.

Wordless reassurance, however, could only go so far in terms of having made a statement such as the one that had dropped from Mistoffelees’ jaws, and he knew that. So, after a moment more of allowing himself to be comforted, he spoke again. “...I can’t help it, Tug. Every time I think it’s gone away, it just comes back, like it’s never left at all. Like  _ this _ .” Granted, this was the first time any of his dreams had been so excruciatingly vivid, but Mistoffelees knew well that he’d have been lying if he’d said his mind had never conjured up flashes of blood and cold and swirling snow while he slept. 

“Alright, darling, alright,” Tugger soothed, smoothing down the patch of his mate’s fur that ran the length of his neck and had now begun to rise with agitation. He was silent for a moment, considering, before he cleared his throat lightly. “I know...that you feel as though you might have done something, that night.”

“But, I  _ could  _ have--”

“ _ Hush _ .” Tugger tapped gently at the top of Mistoffelees’ head with his paw. “Let me finish, would you?” He waited until the smaller cat had ceased his obligatory huffing before beginning again. “I know you think that. And, who’s to say you mightn’t have? But, Mistoffelees -- it  _ doesn’t matter _ .” 

Already, Mistoffelees was opening his mouth to protest, but he was almost immediately cut off. “It doesn’t. I mean it.” Tugger repeated firmly. “And, do you know why?”

Mistoffelees shook his head.

Tugger leveled his gaze with Mistoffelees', the light behind his amber eyes burning with an earnest fervor that Mistoffelees had never quite seen in them before. “Because  _ nothing  _ you could have done then would have begun to compare to what you’ve given me now,” he said. “Do you know that? I’d have weathered a thousand snowstorms with all of my legs broken to pieces if it meant we’d have still ended up like this at the end of it.”

For a moment, Mistoffelees found himself at a loss for a response. It wasn’t that he didn’t know the incredible depth of feeling his mate possessed beneath that preening, flippant exterior of his -- he knew that far better than most cats, he was sure. And, of course, he’d known, too, that there was nothing in the world Tugger would have traded for the life he lived now. But,  _ knowing  _ was one thing. To have such sentiment laid so plainly before him, as though the other tom had plucked his own heart from his chest and placed it between Mistoffelees’ paws without a single beat of hesitance was another entirely.

Still, though,  _ still _ , there was a part of him that couldn’t help but protest. “But,” Mistoffelees began, already hating himself for being so contrary when Tugger had just been so very open with him, “we might have ended up like this sooner, if I hadn’t been--”

“Oh, of  _ course _ , we might have.” Tugger lashed his tail in frustration, prompting Mistoffelees to jump just slightly. “Or, I might have been too proud to accept and told you to go bother a pack of Pollicles, or something else entirely might have kept us from speaking! We don’t  _ know _ , and we never will!”

Mistoffelees gazed wide-eyed at the larger cat, hardly daring to breathe for fear of rousing even more agitation in him. To his credit, it took Tugger mere seconds to realize just how badly he’d startled his mate, and instantly, his expression dropped, his ears lowering themselves against his head. Without a word, he leaned in and pressed his muzzle to Mistoffelees’ forehead in a silent apology, prompting the smaller cat to tuck his head beneath Tugger’s chin and nuzzle into his ruff.

“...That’s just the way of these things, love,” Tugger murmured, his voice far more quiet and gentle now, and Mistoffelees felt his tongue graze his ear affectionately. “It won’t do either of us any good to linger on what may have happened -- only what  _ will _ .”

The sentiment was one that Mistoffelees had repeated to himself often enough, typically to placate his own anxious thoughts on the rare occasions that they took it upon themselves to chase each other ceaselessly through his head. But to hear it now, spoken aloud by perhaps the one cat who could make it sound even remotely convincing to him...it felt less like something meant to temporarily pacify and more like a real  _ solution _ . Perhaps it wouldn’t be enough, right away, to keep his nightmares at bay, but, what could be? This sort of thing was hardly the sort to be solved in a single night, after all.

That being said, Mistoffelees thought to himself, he didn’t suppose he minded that very much -- not if he were to have Tugger by his side until it was and, the Everlasting willing, far, far longer after that.

He’d often wondered just how it was that Tugger had been able to leave his past behind so easily as he did. Or -- well. Perhaps  _ easily  _ wasn’t the right word -- they’d had their difficult days in that early time when Tugger had been less than willing to trust his new humans when they tried to approach or stroke him, when he’d forget to eat after having grown far too used to having to scrounge for his meals, when he’d spend days at a time holed up under the bed in the guest room because it was all  _ too much _ .

It hadn’t been easy, no, but Tugger had never  _ lingered  _ in the way Mistoffelees had come to recognize that he himself had. Now, he supposed, he knew why.

Mistoffelees sighed, the sound speaking less of sorrow or annoyance than it did of  _ release _ , as though along with the breath that left his lungs, there went at least part of a great burden. “And what  _ will  _ happen then, hm?”

Tugger chuckled quietly in that warm, affectionate way of his that very rarely failed to make Mistoffelees’ heart flutter just a little. “Here -- lay back and I’ll tell you.” He allowed his head to rest down against the sofa, carefully shifting his front legs so that they were once again enclosed around his mate’s tiny frame. 

For his part, Mistoffelees was all too happy to comply. It was late still, after all, and now, in the wake of his dream and the conversation that had followed, he was beginning to feel the gentle weight of sleep on his eyelids. His jaws stretched in a yawn as he settled himself down, turning over to curl himself in the low V of Tugger’s chest, burying himself in the thick expanse of his mane. Really, he doubted if he would’ve minded that so much -- summer though it might have been, the half-open skylight in tandem with the rain outside made for a cool enough breeze that he welcomed the extra warmth.

Once he’d seemingly deemed them both suitably comfortable, Tugger began to speak, his voice low, quiet and steady. “Well. First, I suppose, you’ll go back to sleep, and then so will I. The sun will come up in a few more hours, I expect. No telling if it’ll be raining still or not, but that doesn’t matter very much. Your sister will be awake by then, and the humans, too. They’ll go through all that fuss they typically do in the mornings and be off with their little girl, and we’ll likely do the same, once we’ve eaten and such, so long as the rain’s stopped. I’m sure they’ll be expecting us at the junkyard, but there’s a spot in the park I’ve been meaning to show you…”

He went on like that, detailing the simple, mundane things that might comprise their day. Under different circumstances, Mistoffelees might have taken it for a joke, might have swatted playfully at Tugger’s muzzle and told him to stop being silly -- but, here and now, in the wake of the evening, it served simply to allow Mistoffelees to hear the sound of his mate’s voice as he drifted ever-closer to slumber. It was, he supposed, that final bit of reassurance that he needed, to ensure that his nightmare had been well and truly chased away and replaced by something infinitely more comforting.

At last, he allowed his eyes to close. This time, Mistoffelees thought as he nestled ever-closer to the warmth of his mate, he had a feeling his dreams would be much, much sweeter.


End file.
